The Dirt and Dust of Countless Ages
by just jen
Summary: Xandrew. Everyone in this house has someone looking out for them except him. Spoilers for 'Chosen' and Angel season four finale. COMPLETE.
1. one

Title: The Dirt And Dust of Countless Ages  
  
Rating: This chapter – G. Don't know about the rest of it yet.  
  
Author: jen  
  
Summary: All of a sudden Andrew has new clothes besides the all-black ensemble he had on when he was taken hostage. How come?  
  
Disclaim-a-rama: They're not mine. I have nothing to do with the people who created this fantastic world.  
  
  
  
*****  
  
  
  
If this were a cartoon, there'd be humorous stink-lines and clouds of little black buzzy flies. As it is, they have to make do with just the olfactory indications. Which are kind of hard to miss anyway, but so far no one has dared say anything. Until now, and Dawn's sulky teenage candour.   
  
"He stinks!" She doesn't say it to Andrew, of course, because that's not the kind of thing you say to someone. She just says it to Buffy, while Andrew is sitting five feet away, strapped to his chair, unable to avoid it. Xander notices him looking suitably embarrassed, and can't help a touch of sympathetic solidarity. He's been spending so much time at the Summers' house that getting back to his own place for a shower and a change of clothes is becoming a luxury, but at least he has that option. Their hostage, on the other hand, has been in the same clothes for days now, allowed nothing more than sink-baths in the kitchen while Xander or Giles stand guard, looking the other way and trying not to be embarrassed.  
  
He can see Andrew squirming under the disgusted glare of the women, and wonders if he is the only one who kind of pities the guy. Everyone else is still somewhere between furious and plain old annoyed. Xander is too, of course, because Andrew is a Bad Guy and has to be despised. But somehow it feels more like the way you hate flies: they're irritating and kind of disgusting, but you still feel a pang of guilt when you swat them.  
  
"I can't help it!" Andrew's wheedley little voices pierces his thoughts, and he is gesturing his innocence as emphatically as he can while his arms are still bound to the chair. It's a pathetic sight really, Xander feels. The Trio caused so much pain, but this is what's left of it. Andrew looks as if he wants to crawl under a rock and hide. Maybe he really is a bug, Xander wonders: a bug that knows it's on a collision course with a rolled-up newspaper and there's no time to get out of its way.   
  
A shameful ache in his belly for every insect he's ever squished must be the reason why he cuts in with "the guy just needs a shower and some clean clothes. It's not that big a deal."  
  
They look at him as if he's just suggested they send a hand-written invitation for the First to come to dinner.  
  
"He's a hostage, Xander." Buffy's tone could slice through the couch and leave them with two neat new armchairs. "We're not babysitting him." Dawn fixes him with a stare so akin to Buffy's that Xander has to take a moment to mentally congratulate the ex-monks on their handiwork.  
  
"No, but we do have to be around him all day," he reminds them, not missing the surprised gratitude on Andrew's face at the possibility of a supporter. "C'mon Buff, if not for his sake then for ours. Yours."  
  
Buffy's face is still impassive, so he switches his gaze to Willow, hopeful that her silence is a sign of uncertainty. A quick flash of a puppy-dog stare is all it takes.  
  
"He's got a point, Buffy. I mean, it can't be healthy, leaving him to…fester like that." Now Buffy has two puppy-pouts to contend with. Hah. Slayer-strength doesn't even compare. Obviously aware of impending defeat, she turns to Dawn. The last obstacle in his quest for a stink-free hostage. Clearly, she is torn. A show of strength will impress the Slayer, but Andrew really is starting to reek.  
  
Under the irresistible force of two sad-eyed gazes, Dawn crumbles.   
  
"If he's clean he'll at least be slightly less annoying."  
  
Buffy rolls her eyes, admitting defeat. Andrew sighs a "thank you". Dawn flounces away into the kitchen. Xander gives thanks to the creator of the puppy-dog stare, then wonders if only teenage girls are capable of flouncing.  
  
"So where do we get new clothes?" Willow sounds perfectly innocent in her request, but suddenly Xander is filled with a sense of foreboding: the kind he gets when the guys at work tell him they might not be able to hit their completion deadline, and he knows he's been volunteered to inform the clients.  
  
"Okay, Xander." Buffy's suddenly cheery tone is belied by the glint of pure evil in her eye. "Guess it's your turn to change the baby." She smiles, and heads to join Dawn in the kitchen. Willow offers a sympathetic smile, before darting upstairs.  
  
The embarrassed relief on Andrew's face is meagre compensation.  
  
He sighs, and kneels by Andrew's chair to untie the ropes.  
  
"Come on then, Pig Pen."  
  
***** 


	2. two

Xander realises distractedly that Andrew is the first non-Scooby to visit the apartment. Not counting Toth, of course, who wasn't really visiting, just passing through while trying to kill him.  
  
He knows he's supposed to feel as if his privacy is being invaded, but he's too busy being annoyed with Buffy. He wasn't given money to buy new clothes for Andrew. He wasn't even allowed to buy new clothes out of his own cash. Instead, he has strict instructions to clothe Andrew with the stuff in his own closet. Apparently if he's taken to a store, he could do something evil.  
  
He decides that sympathy sucks, and makes a mental note never to do it again. Until Andrew steps a little closer and provides him with a very pungent reminder of why he got sympathetic in the first place.  
  
"Bathroom's through here," he mumbles, walking as though he's showing the way and not trying to step out of range of the smell. Andrew's head is ducked when Xander glances back to check he is following: he probably knows why Xander doesn't want to get too close, and Xander feels embarrassed for both of them. It's a relief when Andrew steps past and into the bathroom, offering a quiet "thanks" before closing the door.  
  
Xander tries to remember if there are clean towels in the bathroom. Now that it's just him in the apartment, he tends not to worry about things like that. A brief rush of loneliness washes over him: not lonely for Anya, he reminds himself. Just the general everyday loneliness that comes from living alone and not having anyone else to clean up for or talk to when the silence gets too much or hold at night all scrunched up on one side of the big old bed that was made for two people anyway and –   
  
The pipes rumble as the shower is turned on, tearing through his daydream and reminding him he is here for a reason.  
  
He's never been too crazy about fashion, always thought clothes were just something to keep you warm and hide your hide-ables, but staring at the stuff in his closet, Xander suddenly can't bear to part with anything. Not for Andrew, anyway. There isn't much anyway; jeans and T-shirts for work, a couple of dress-shirts from when he still had time to go out after work, and two off-the-rack suits for meetings and such. There's never been much need to own anything else, unlike the girls who seem to never wear the same thing twice. He wonders briefly if Buffy's closet is some kind of TARDIS, because he's seen her in more different outfits than could possibly fit in her entire house. They're on a Hellmouth after all, so anything's possible.  
  
Xander's not even sure if he owns anything that will fit Andrew. Well, maybe the T-shirts will do, since it doesn't matter so much if they're too big. He digs out a couple of his less-ratty work-shirts and tosses them on the bed. There's an old hooded sweatshirt too, and a black jacket he bought ages ago without trying it on, only to find it was far too tight across the shoulders. Gotta say one thing about living on a Hellmouth: staking vampires is great upper body exercise. All the crap he eats and he's only buffed up over the years.  
  
So there are no old jeans that are conveniently too tight, or cords that he's outgrown. He has to rummage through every shelf and pile and rack twice before he discovers an old pair of sweats that he thought he'd lost in the laundry room. The water stops humming in the pipes as he gathers his finds together, and he realises with an odd sense of worry that Andrew's been in the shower for about ten minutes. Evidently he hasn't done a bunk, if he's still around to turn off the water, and Xander's certain that even if Andrew could fit through the bathroom window, he wouldn't relish the three-storey drop to the ground. Unless he has some kind of flying mojo, or some demon to help him down, or –   
  
No, because Andrew's stepping out of the bathroom, both hands clutching at the green towel around his waist. It's a few seconds before Xander realises he is staring.  
  
He knows they've been feeding Andrew: he and Dawn are usually the ones who get stuck with eating with him because he's forbidden from sitting to the table with everyone else (mostly because they don't want him around). Still, he almost looks like he's spent the last two weeks in a concentration camp and not Buffy's living room. Xander tries to reassure himself that it's mostly from hiding out in Mexico with no home and no money, but it doesn't help. The blotchy bands around his wrists are yellow and grey, like the middle of an over-boiled egg. They don't tie him up so much anymore: just at night, and when Buffy and Willow are out of the house. Still, Xander knows he's responsible for those bruises. He was the first to strap Andrew to that chair, and oh crap Andrew's been sleeping in that chair for how long now? Which probably explains the shadows under his eyes, the ones that make him look so haunted. Only slightly less obvious are the two neat little puncture marks on his neck, turned bright white and pink by the water and standing out from skin that looks like it's been scrubbed raw in the shower.  
  
They've done this, Xander realises. They've done this to another human being. All Buffy's reminders about him being a murderer don't seem to wash anymore, not when Andrew's standing there in a towel, squirming under his stare and unable to look him in the eye. He doesn't look evil. He doesn't even look mildly irritating. Andrew just looks like he wants to cry.  
  
Xander swallows around the sudden lump in his throat and wonders if he'll ever get that image out of his mind. He clears his throat and turns away to fish the sweats and a T-shirt out of the pile. When he hands them over, his cheeks flush because he can't look Andrew in the eye either. Andrew stands there for a moment, then "um"s so that Xander has to look up to see what the problem is.  
  
"I, uh, need clean underwear," Andrew explains in a small voice that's only slightly reminiscent of his usual whine.   
  
Xander nods in realisation, and glances across at the chest of drawers where his own is kept. Andrew's need may be great, but the idea of someone wearing his underpants just doesn't bear thinking about. He contemplates the problem for a moment, quickly reaching a decision.  
  
"We'll take your stuff down to the laundry room then you've got some for today. Then we'll stop somewhere on the way home. I don't care what Buffy says – you should at least get clean underwear."  
  
Andrew's grateful smile at that one small mercy is too much, and he has to look away.  
  
***** 


	3. three

By the time Andrew is dressed, Xander has more or less pulled himself together. The sight of his original outfit, laying in a crumpled heap on the bed while Andrew changes in the bathroom, probably helps. If Xander pictures him in Bad Guy black, it's easier to imagine him killing Jonathon and starting this whole new apocalypse, and then he can concentrate on his prison warden role instead of wanting to open the metaphorical cage and set the little rodent free.  
  
He tries to hold on to that thought when Andrew re-emerges, still looking painfully skinny in baggy T-shirt and faded grey sweats. He pads across the floor to retrieve his clothes and shoes, bundling them up in his arms. Xander tries not to look at the bruised wrists, tries to remind himself that Andrew must be watched like a hawk or who knows what he'll try. Doesn't bother to speak as he collects detergent and fabric softener from the kitchen, because he can't say for sure that his voice will hold.  
  
They walk out the door side by side, and Xander places a palm on Andrew's back. He feels the guy flinch at the contact, frozen for a moment like the deer that's just spotted the hunter, then Andrew shifts and relaxes a little. When he's certain Andrew isn't going to try anything, his fingers curl and grasp a handful of lurid yellow T-shirt.  
  
"You're not going anywhere." It isn't a threat, just a reminder. He pulls slightly, and Andrew stumbles half a step back, until Xander releases him and leaves his palm to rest between Andrew's shoulder-blades. "I just don't need my neighbours to know I have a hostage." His voice is low and even: if he tries to put any kind of emotion in it, he's certain he won't be able to finish speaking.  
  
They carry on in silence. Xander holds back a gasp of surprise when they reach the top of the stairs and come face to face with Mrs Miller from the next floor up. She quirks an eyebrow at him, glancing between him and his captive, then simply mutters a confused "hello" before carrying on towards the next flight. She can't know, Xander tells himself, there's no way she can know. Beside him, Andrew has started to blush, and with a lurch to his stomach Xander realises how degrading this must be for him. It's one thing to be a hostage in private, but now he's being frogmarched through a public building. He increases his pace, pushing Andrew onwards, getting them to the laundry room as quickly as possible.  
  
There's no describing his relief upon finding that it's empty. He closes the door behind them with a pointed glance at Andrew, letting him know again that he can't run away, then takes Andrew's balled-up clothes and stuffs them into one of the machines. They have automatic washing machines here, which are quiet and efficient, but leave Xander just a little nostalgic for some kind of interaction with the whole washing-drying process. There's nothing to do in the laundry room but sit and watch the clothes go round and round. He's even timed the basic wash/dry cycle of the combination machines out of sheer boredom, and has counted the number of times the drum spins in five minutes when it switches over to tumble-dry. The thought of spending one hour and twenty-three minutes in here with Andrew looms up like really dull tidal wave, and he decides they aren't going to wait around for Andrew's clothes.  
  
Once the machine is programmed, he looks back over at Andrew and announces that they're going back upstairs.  
  
"It smells funny in here," Andrew comments as he heads over to the door. It's the first thing he's said since he came back out of the bathroom, and it surprises Xander, so it takes him a moment to reply.  
  
"That's the smell of clean," he points out. "Have you forgotten that already?" Andrew's face creases into worried confusion. Xander just shakes his head and carries on out the door. When Andrew falls into step beside him, he realises that Andrew smells clinically fresh, with just a faint hint of Xander's shower gel lingering on his skin.  
  
Andrew loiters in the kitchen when they get back inside the apartment, evidently unsure what he's supposed to be doing. Xander heads straight for the TV, flicking through stations with the remote to find the best way to kill one hour and twenty-three minutes (or is it twenty-one minutes since they walked back upstairs?). On some chat-show, a woman built like a candied apple on a stick is yelling at her even rounder husband for doing the dirty with her brother, and Xander decides he isn't going to find better entertainment at this time of day, so he sticks with that station, dropping on to the couch and kicking off his shoes.  
  
"You can sit down, you know." Andrew still stands by the door, his shoes in his hands, looking completely lost. He dithers a moment more, then steps cautiously across the floor to perch himself on the couch. Like a wild rabbit, Xander decides. The ones that look up from what they're doing every few seconds to check for danger. The ones that are always ready to run away. He wonders again how this guy ever passed for evil.  
  
Five minutes later and Andrew's yelling at the apple-woman for being a complete idiot.  
  
"Why the heck did you marry him in the first place? He's the gayest thing I've ever seen!"  
  
Xander stopped watching the show as soon as Andrew started talking back to it. He's finding the shouting in his living room far more entertaining. Andrew has said more in the past minute than he's said since they left Buffy's house.  
  
When they were kids, Willow gave Xander a kaleidoscope for his birthday. He'd hold it up to the light and keep turning it, so the colours kept changing and cycling. Watching Andrew is like watching a human kaleidoscope. It takes just the slightest distraction to turn him and make him change. It's probably just a short attention span, Xander decides, but it's like meeting an entirely different Andrew.  
  
Xander remembers the hunted-look he saw on the guy's face earlier, the punished figure standing awkwardly in just a green towel, and thinks Andrew is either the greatest actor he's ever seen, or just far too used to punishment.   
  
*****  
  
tbc 


	4. four

When Xander parks up outside Buffy's house, Andrew is practically vibrating in his seat. He has the look of a kid in the throes of a vicious sugar rush, and Xander feels as though he has spent the evening walking an untrained puppy. All the way around the supermarket he'd kept his hand on Andrew's back or arm or shoulder to keep him from running off, but the guy had still bounced around the aisles, as excited as if he'd never been in a store before. Xander puts that down to having been cooped up inside for two weeks straight, and wonders if he'd be the same way. As it is, he's kind of enjoyed having a couple of hours away from work and from potential Slayers. He doesn't have Slayer-endurance, or the right hormonal combination to make being around stressed-out women a bonding experience, so he's always grateful of an opportunity to escape the insanity for a couple of hours.  
  
Andrew's animated chatter had died down not long before they pulled into Buffy's street, and Xander realises he hasn't had such a pointless conversation in a long time. Everything at work is, well, work-related, and frivolity doesn't really have a place in Buffy's house right now. Which Xander gets, of course, because the end of the world is not the time to make with the laughs. It just feels good to take a break from ultimate evil and discuss Vanilla Coke versus original Coke (Andrew likes the Vanilla 'cause it tastes like expensive cream soda), or the baking smells in the bread aisle (Xander swears that it's piped in through the air vents to make people hungry). And it's not like Xander did much talking anyway: mostly he just listened to Andrew's random observations and wondered if the guy could focus on anything for more than a minute.  
  
Now though, as they walk towards Buffy's front door, Andrew has fallen oddly silent, and they can hear raised female voices before they even get to the porch. Andrew clutches his bag of new-old clothes like a security blanket and mutters a quiet "uh-oh" before they let themselves inside.  
  
Before they even get through the door they are almost knocked off their feet as a vaguely familiar-looking girl sprints past, followed a second later by Kennedy, who shouts something about hairbrushes and respect. They take a moment to recover, then Xander steers Andrew towards the kitchen, in the direction of Buffy's voice.  
  
She acknowledges them with a nod of her head while still listening to a list of completed chores that Dawn is reeling off. The youngest Summers turns to see who has interrupted, raises an eyebrow at Andrew's bright yellow shirt, then carries on talking to Buffy.  
  
"I'm better find somewhere to hide these," Andrew whispers to him, still staring at the bag in his arms. The clothes have been piled in on top of the stuff they'd bought, though not in any attempt to hide his disobedience to Buffy, Xander tells himself. Just because, you know…just because. After they'd picked up three pairs of plain white boxers (and he'd ignored Andrew's protests that black would have been cooler, because he has to remember not to go too easy on the guy) and a discount pack of tube socks, Xander had gotten into the swing of things and thrown in a toothbrush, a can of deodorant and a pack of disposable razors, though he doubts if Andrew even needs them. He hasn't had an opportunity to shave since he's been held hostage, but he still looks as baby-faced as when Willow had brought him home. Heh. 'He followed me home Buffy, can we keep him?' Xander has to keep reminding himself not to think about Andrew that way. Cold-blooded killer and all that, right? But it's hard when Andrew turns grateful puppy-eyes on him and says "thanks" for the eighteenth time since they left the store, and sidles out of the kitchen to hide his new possessions.  
  
"Any problems?" Buffy asks him when Dawn has finished. Her voice is still business-like, so Xander guesses she doesn't want to hear that yes, there is a problem, that they've been treating Andrew the way they'd treated the newly chipped Spike, except he's just a bruised and broken boy and not a preternaturally strong vampire who might possibly have liked the whole bonds and shackles thing anyway.  
  
So he just tells her no, everything's okay and Andrew should be quiet for a while now. She waits to see if there's more, but Xander's not sure if there's anything else to tell her.  
  
A series of thumps from upstairs breaks the silence, followed by another scream, possibly Kennedy again. Buffy rolls her eyes in a distinctly Giles-like manner, but Xander decides that pointing out that newly acquired mannerism probably won't help to break the tension.  
  
"You want me to stick around tonight?" he asks, and she responds with a thankful half-smile.  
  
"Would you?"  
  
He nods, trying not to show his own gratitude at her request. The chaos might be a bit much, but somehow it seems better than the cold quiet of his own apartment right now.  
  
She looks around, just as a troop of potentials descend upon the kitchen and make a beeline for the fridge.   
  
"I'm sure we have some space somewhere."  
  
*****  
  
tbc 


	5. five

Living on a Hellmouth means Xander is used to freaky things happening. So when, after three hours of trying to sift through the paperwork that has built up in the foreman's office, Xander begins to feel like his head might explode, he makes a beeline for the door because there's no saying it won't actually happen.  
  
Three hours ago, helping with paperwork had seemed like a pleasant change to the chaos and head-hurting-ness of casa de Summers. Now he's getting homesick for teenage yelling and ultimate evil. So it's a surprise to find the house empty when he arrives at Buffy's.  
  
He treads softly through the house until he hears decidedly organised shouting coming from the back yard. The girls are lined up in rows, doing something that looks like caffeine-fuelled Tai chi. It'd be cute if he didn't know what it was for. Buffy is leading the group, looking focused and calm for the first time in a while. With the sun red and low on the horizon, it looks like it could be a scene from a movie. Dawn is sitting on the porch step, a book open in her lap, but she's not paying it any attention. She looks around and smiles when Xander approaches.  
  
"They're not trying to kill each other anymore," he announces, astounded, as he takes a seat beside her. She watches the group a moment more, and Xander can't help but worry that Dawn is still clinging just a little to her moment of almost-Slayer-hood. He knows what it's like to be the one watching the group, after all.  
  
"Buffy's way of de-stressing the potentials," she explains. "I think it's actually working. They're not yelling at each other anyway, so it's good enough for me." She grins at Xander, and he responds in kind. At least he has work and his own apartment when he needs to escape. Dawn's the one sharing her room with five strange girls.  
  
He scans the rows of girls, some of whom still aren't recognisable. He wonders if he'll ever learn all their names. Then wonders if he'll have time to try.  
  
His gaze comes to rest at the end of the furthest row, on the definitely non-female figure standing a little apart from the formation. Andrew's face is blocked by the camera in his hands, but Xander can just hear him muttering something to himself. Or possibly to the camera. He's oddly impressed to see that Andrew is still wearing the yellow shirt from yesterday with his black pants: at least he has the sense to conserve his resources.  
  
Xander looks back at Dawn, nodding his head in Andrew's direction and furrowing his brow.  
  
"Willow's got him taping the training sessions," Dawn informs him with an amused smile. "He was whining about being bored and Buffy was ready to strangle him, so Willow gave him the camera. It's supposed to be so the potentials can learn from the tapes, but I think he's trying to turn it into ESPN coverage."  
  
Xander considers this for a moment.  
  
"Does he even know what ESPN is?"   
  
She giggles, and Xander is happy. It's not a sound he hears much lately.  
  
They watch a moment longer, until Dawn snaps her book closed, startling him.  
  
"Well, the reading isn't happening anymore. I'm gonna get a drink." Her invitation is unspoken, but Xander gratefully gets up and follows her into the kitchen. There is companionable silence for a blissful couple of minutes as Dawn helps herself to a glass of juice and Xander decides to fill a jug of ice water for the trainee Slayers, until the back door slams, shattering the peace.  
  
Three potentials, not one of whom Xander can name, storm into the kitchen and crowd around the refrigerator. They rummage around inside, emptying tubs and jars on to the counter, until Xander hears an outraged "hey", and all three of them turn back into the room.  
  
Before they can explain the problem, Andrew comes clattering into the kitchen, camera still in hand.  
  
"What did you do?" Xander doesn't know which one has spoken: they're becoming interchangeable. It probably doesn't matter though, because they've all fixed Andrew with the same accusatory glare.  
  
Both he and Dawn swivel their eyes to the accused, who takes a second to process the question before his face lights up in realisation.  
  
"Convenience food," he explains, only to be met with three identical impassive stares. "See, I cooked the meals in bulk and put them in the Tupperware boxes so all you have to do is microwave." His face is defiantly hopeful. Xander decides it doesn't help.  
  
"But now there's nothing in here for in between meals."  
  
Xander just knows that Andrew is about to respond with something about not eating between meals. 'Please don't,' he thinks as hard as he can in the vain hope that Andrew can tap into the telepathy thing Willow's got going between her, Xander and Buffy. 'I can't take any more yelling, and they'll just eat you alive.'  
  
Fortunately, both his ears and Andrew's life are spared when Buffy and Willow appear in the doorway. Behind them, the rest of the potentials have gathered together and are unashamedly staring at the impasse.   
  
"What now?" Buffy's voice suggests that the de-stressing exercises aren't as good as Dawn had hoped.   
  
Three voices break into a confused jumble of speech, with Andrew's name the only recognisable part. Xander watches him fidget under the weight of the words. Flash of egg-yellow bruises, of wide rabbit-eyes and a green towel...  
  
Buffy does the Giles-eyes thing, and Xander watches her clench and unclench her fists for a moment.  
  
"You know what?" she breathes, glancing at the girls, "you deal with it. If you can't even handle him then what hope do we have?" She turns and stalks out of the kitchen, pushing past the gaggle of potentials that have crowded behind her. Willow casts an imploring glance at Xander, then shakes her head and goes after Buffy. Beside him, Dawn eyes the girls with trepidation, then puts down her glass and leaves without a word.  
  
Potentials to the left of them. Potentials to the right of them. Exhausted and annoyed.  
  
"Andrew? Get in the car."  
  
*****  
  
tbc 


	6. six

He doesn't speak until the car is halfway down the street.  
  
"You know they'd have ripped you to pieces, right?"  
  
Beside him, Andrew is entirely still, eyes closed and hands clasped tightly in his lap. Xander wonders if he's heard a single word. He's about to try again, when -   
  
"I know." Andrew's voice is a whisper, of the 'I still can't believe I'm alive and don't want to jinx it' variety.  
  
He wants to be mad. He wants to yell at Andrew for making Buffy mad, and for pissing off the potentials who certainly don't need anything else to worry about right now. He just doesn't know where to start. Andrew's probably spent the whole day cooking meals and dividing them into microwaveable portions, thinking it's a helpful, thoughtful thing to do. Which it probably is, Xander decides. It's just… they didn't ask for help. They're supposed to be strong and independent and all Amazon-like, and that means no help from men. Especially boys who get scared by raised voices and prefer wielding a spatula to a stake. That's not what Slayers do. Or it's not what potentials think Slayers should do. Not that he can explain any of that to Andrew.  
  
"They're scared," he says instead. "They don't know what they're doing, they can't keep up with what's happening and they can't admit that to Buffy."  
  
"But why does everyone take it out on me?" Xander hasn't heard that whine in a couple of days. It's not pleasant. In fact, it's kind of adding to his headache. Andrew folds his arms, and Xander's certain that if he were standing, he'd be stamping his foot too.  
  
"Because you're the closest thing they've got to a real, physical bad guy right now." He's only guessing, but it sounds pretty plausible, so he decides to stick with the theory. The potentials can't fight the First, and they can't fight Buffy, so they go for the easiest options: fighting each other and Andrew.  
  
"But I'm helping!" Andrew pouts, unfolds his arms, then folds them again out of sheer frustration. "I don't deserve this!"  
  
"You're a hostage!" Xander's head is threatening to pop again, and the only thing stopping him from turning around and dropping Andrew on Buffy's front porch again is those damn hunted eyes that flash in his memory at the worst possible times. He has to know he's doing the right thing: has to know he can't let them cross the line.  
  
"But I'm good now," Andrew continues, turning in his seat to face Xander. "I'm helping. I've abandoned the Obsidian Order and I'm decoding messages for Starfleet. What more do they want from me?"  
  
He can't hold back a sigh. It's all he can do not to close his eyes, to try and shut out Andrew's pleading expression. Instead he fights to keep the car steady, pressing a little harder on the gas pedal.  
  
"I know you're trying," he tells his passenger, who waits expectantly for his advice, "but they don't need a chef. We're talking about the end of the world here, Andrew, and you can't fight that with cookies."  
  
They watch the road in silence. The wheels hum over the asphalt.  
  
"Um, where are we going?" Andrew asks, after almost a whole minute's peace.  
  
Xander sighs again.  
  
"I've had a day and a half at work. I need to shut down. I want TV and carbohydrates and canned laughter." He tries to imagine himself stretched out on his couch with a beer and a bag of chips. Then wonders if he has any beer. Or chips. Or food of any kind that doesn't require any effort. He draws a blank. "I'm going home."  
  
Which turns out to be an adventure by itself, because as Andrew chatters on about what's on TV, he spots the video store and decides instantly that a film will be much better than anything television has to offer tonight. Xander's in no mood to fight any more, and he allows himself to be led inside, where the fluorescent lights buzz like wasps and hurt the insides of his eyes.  
  
They argue because Xander's already seen 'Spiderman' and doesn't think it stands up to repeat viewing. They argue about whether 'Freaked' is really science fiction or just gross-out comedy. Then they team up and argue with the clerk who thinks Alice Krige was a better villain than Ricardo Montalban. Xander thinks if it weren't for the headache, it might be the most fun he's ever had while fully clothed.  
  
Not the arguing, which makes his head throb, and certainly not listening to Andrew's petulant whining, but being around somebody who gets it. Willow tries: she can tell the difference between Doctor Zimmerman and the EMH, and she agrees with Xander's theory that 'Space Precinct' was just a way of using up left-over alien suits, but she's not cut out for 'Outer Limits' marathons or discussions about subtext in 'Farscape'. Buffy doesn't pretend to care, and Dawn stopped thinking it was cool the moment she started crushing on Spike.  
  
Xander finds himself wondering what it must have been like to hang out with Jonathan and Warren in Nerd Central. Before Warren went psycho, of course.  
  
They eventually make it back to the apartment bearing Doritos and a copy of 'Thumb Wars: The Phantom Cuticle', which the clerk highly recommended. Xander's certain it was just to get them both out of his store, but Andrew seemed okay with it so he doesn't complain. Andrew is still yammering on about Lucas-parodies past, and how this one has to be better than 'Spaceballs'. He asks questions and never waits for answers. Kaleidoscope, Xander thinks. Why won't it stop turning?  
  
While Andrew sets up the tape, he gulps down painkillers with a glass of water and realises he hasn't eaten since lunch. Better find something soon, or he'll end up paying for it.  
  
He pulls off his shoes and leaves them by the door, then joins Andrew on the couch. Andrew doesn't complain when he snatches away the bag of Doritos and makes an eager start on its contents.  
  
The headache is long gone by the time the movie ends. When he feels a guilty pang at the thought of bailing on Buffy and Willow, he consoles himself with a reminder that he's still helping, in a way. Andrew is here, relaxed and still giggling, instead of there, whining and getting underfoot. The guilt disappears.  
  
"Steve Oederkerk is my god," Andrew breathes, and giggles some more. Xander can't help smiling. He watches Andrew get up and put the tape back in the box. The guy doesn't look like he's about to run anymore, or pout, or burst into tears. He seems happy. Xander made him happy. He wonders if that will make up for the bruises.  
*****  
  
  
tbc 


	7. seven

The girls are outside practising their formation Slaying when he arrives at Buffy's. After the extra hours he's put in over the last couple of days, he's managed to wrangle the afternoon off, and when he finally stops moving, drops the bag he's brought from home on the floor and flops on to Buffy's couch, he decides it's long overdue. He aches in the weirdest of places, probably because he's spent as much time sitting in uncomfortable chairs as he has on the site. Work-ache has the benefit of satisfaction after a job well done, but the backache that comes from sitting up straight in office chairs just has ache and nothing more.  
  
There's a background of muffled chatter from the kitchen, not quite enough to disturb the relative serenity of the living room, and Xander almost believes he could fall asleep right here, without even laying down. With eyes closed, he picks out the voices of Dawn and Anya in the kitchen. They sound pleasantly friendly, and amid the indecipherable hum of their conversation, he hears Anya cooing, "oh, but you look adorable!" It's followed by Dawn's recognisable giggle, then a quieter, almost shy laugh from someone else.  
  
Silence zooms back in for a time, humming in his ears until the tingly ache in his muscles combines with the lack of sensory experience to make him feel as if he's not on the couch anymore, but floating in molasses. It's disorienting, but not unpleasant.  
  
A surprised "Xander!" bursts in through the hum, and he flutters his eyes open. Red and purple floaters dance in front of him and it takes some seconds before he sees Andrew standing in the doorway, camera in hand once again. His smile is disconcertingly sunny, and Xander wants to know how anyone can be smiling like that right now. What happened to the end of the world?  
  
"Hey," he replies, because anything else feels like too much effort, and damn, even his voice sounds sore.  
  
Since Andrew is still lingering across the room, as though he's waiting for Xander to decide if he'll be tolerated, Xander pushes himself to the edge of the couch and picks up the bag he dumped when he came in.  
  
"Brought you these," he manages before his voice gives up and he finds he literally can't do anything else. Andrew's face lights up and he bounds across the room to take the bag from Xander's unresisting hands. He takes a seat beside Xander and empties the bag out on to the couch in between them, his grin melting into an 'o' of surprise that Xander thinks is entirely unwarranted. It's only some more old shirts and sweaters that he's cleared out of his closet, but Andrew's 'ooh'ing like it's a bag full of crisp dollar bills. Or Marvel first issues, or whatever gives Andrew his happies. It's weird, but fuzzy warm weird, because he's done something to make someone smile, and that's getting harder and harder to accomplish lately.   
  
When Andrew's done holding up shirts and breathing "thank you" he mutters that it's no problem, feeling his cheeks flushing at Andrew's reaction. It takes just the simplest things, he thinks. Just the tiniest turn to change the pattern.  
  
Starting as if he's just remembered, Andrew picks up his camera again. Somewhere along the line he's forgotten about the instructional training tape idea Willow gave him, and turned it into a movie of the week, despite Buffy's protests. Xander thinks it's probably just something to do instead of cooking, but it's keeping him happy, and Xander hasn't seen the hunted eyes for a while. Which is good, because they were really beginning to scare him.  
  
"Um, if you're not busy," Andrew begins, hope edging cautiously into his voice, "then maybe I could do you now. Your intro, I mean." His face reddens, like he's embarrassed to ask anything more after Xander's already given him clothes and an evening away from the house.  
  
Xander nods in agreement.  
  
"As long as I don't have to, you know…move," he clarifies. Andrew laughs carefully, as though he's not sure he's understood the joke, or if there even is a joke. It's entirely possible, Xander realises, that the Trio and the people in Buffy's house constitute the entire spectrum of Andrew's social experiences. He decides that, if they actually make it through this, he has to make sure Andrew gets out more.  
  
He gets to sit completely still as Andrew moves around the living room, trying to find a suitable angle. When Andrew eventually settles on the arm of one chair, he decides he's regained enough energy to speak again.  
  
"So what do I have to do?"  
  
Andrew fiddles some more with the buttons on the camera before looking up at him with a half-smile.  
  
"Uh, just sit there, really. This is just an introduction, and I'm gonna cut it with, you know, other footage. Location stuff, and uh…interviews…" Andrew's voice is both lazy and nervous, an oddly soothing alternative to the shrieks and arguments and strained tones that he's gotten used to hearing lately.  
  
So he just sits and waits for the feeling to come back to his limbs, while Andrew talks.  
  
He feels a pleasant flush as Andrew repeats the moniker he decided upon that morning during breakfast. He feels his cheeks redden when Andrew mentions the courage and strength required to fight alongside the Slayer for seven years, and has to look away to keep from breaking into a dopey grin. He feels a faint buzz in his belly as Andrew moves on to how Xander is always the one looking out for his friends, caring and listening and lifting spirits, and his smile begins to falter. He feels something might be very wrong with this situation.  
  
Why does he keep attracting the weird ones?  
  
*****  
  
tbc 


	8. eight

So maybe they're not all weird, Xander decides as he listens to the mis-matched rhythms of their breathing. Anya may be… different, but she has all the physical and emotional components of a typical, normal woman.  
  
Including the ability to crush his heart into dust.  
  
It's the sense of finality that's the hardest to deal with. He can manage awkward social situations. Uncomfortable conversations: not a problem. Sexual tension? Got it covered. Because all that stuff means there's still something there: some evidence of what they had. Still a possibility. Somewhere, some-when, their relationship still exists.  
  
But now Anya says it's not there anymore. It's over. They're over. In Xander's mind, that's just not possible. He's having a really hard time getting his head around the nothingness of it all.  
  
How can something just cease to be?  
  
The love is still there. He said so, and so did she, so how can there be love and nothing at the same time? How can something become nothing?  
  
She said she still loved him, and in that moment the world was just him and Anya and the couch and those words. No house, no camera, no Andrew…  
  
It gets cold when Anya leaves the basement. Or maybe it was always cold and he was too preoccupied to notice. Maybe he's always been cold. He felt warm with Anya, but she's just turned all that into nothingness, so perhaps the warmth is nothingness too.  
  
When you put out a fire, you still feel the warmth afterwards as it dissipates and touches the things around it. He pictures his love leaving his body and spreading through the basement, soaking into the walls. Maybe the walls will fall in love with each other, and the washing machine will start crushing on the drier.   
  
He was happy with the tension. It meant there was still something between them to make them tense. But then Andrew had to go playing Michael Moore and make them talk about it all, like the apple-woman and her husband. Except Anya doesn't have a gay brother.  
  
It's cold, and Xander has a sudden sensation of emptiness, not just inside him but around him. He can't deal with empty spaces and silences: they have to be filled.  
  
When he finds himself beginning to shiver, he pushes himself out of the cot and forces himself to get dressed. His head has cleared enough that he remembers to strip the sheets and stuff them into the washing machine (and is half tempted to formally introduce it to the drier, just in case). After all, the last thing he wants is Spike of all people knowing what they did in his bed.  
  
There's no more sunlight streaming through the windows when he gets back upstairs. It doesn't worry him that he has no idea how long he's been in the basement. If anyone needed him for anything, he'd have heard them calling. Unless they called while he was…busy.  
  
Voices drift like mist from the living room, soft and slightly tired, almost like they don't want to travel that far. He knows it's Will and Buffy before he gets there, but he is unsurprised to see Spike and Principal Wood with them at the dining table.  
  
"Hey." Buffy looks up, the first to greet him, and she smiles a weary smile that's not entirely about him. "Did you get back before us?"  
  
Xander isn't even aware that she's been away, but doesn't want to draw any attention to his current confusion.  
  
"How are…things?" It's about the safest thing he can think of to say, since he really ought to have been up here helping instead of down there doing… other things. He's still trying to adjust to the fact that the rest of the world has just carried on while he was busy having his insides metaphorically splattered over the basement walls.  
  
"Things are good," Buffy answers with something that might almost be satisfaction. "Better, anyway." Suddenly Xander wants to know if they're even aware he's been in the house all afternoon. Things aren't good. Things are about as far from good as they could possibly be, short of the world ending, and…oh wait, it is.  
  
"We closed the seal," Willow explains. "Well, Buffy and Andrew did."  
  
He looks around the occupants of the room. All four look tired, but triumphant. Like they've pulled off something huge, while all he's been doing is - okay, enough with the self-pity, he decides. Something's clearly happened this evening, and he has no idea what.  
  
"Seal?" he asks, then, "closed? Buffy? Andrew? How?" Five questions in five words, he realises. Is that some kind of record? "When?" Must be, now.  
  
Buffy and Wood explain about finding the seal uncovered again, and Willow jumps in to tell him about needing the person who opened it in the first place. He has to concentrate for a moment to realise she means Andrew.   
  
Suddenly he's flashing back to being suspended over the seal himself, wondering if that's what had to be done to Andrew to close it up. His stomach bungees down to his shoes and his skin picks up a freezing cold shiver that he somehow identifies as dread.  
  
But then, Buffy doesn't look as though she's just killed someone. She's still kind of smiling. Then again, this is Andrew they're talking about.  
  
How the hell has he missed all this? The rest of the conversation kind of wafts right by him, a breeze that stirs his own thoughts only slightly. All that research and planning going on right over his - their - heads, and he had almost forgotten the rest of the house was still there. And then Buffy working with Andrew, and the seal actually being closed and not just out-of-sight-out-of-mind, and, and he needs more time to take all this in.  
  
"Where is Andrew?" he hears himself ask, and it's like the words went straight to his mouth and bypassed his brain altogether. Buffy and Willow exchange and odd glance that he thinks he wasn't supposed to see, and he thinks, damn, probably shouldn't have asked that so soon. But they don't question him.  
  
"Upstairs I think," Willow answers, and the tension whooshes out of his body in one quick breath. He waits a moment more, trying to decide what to do. He knows that, for the sake of his own sanity, he should stay downstairs, at least until he's had some time to get the evening's events straight in his head, but when nobody appears ready to say anything else to him, he finds his feet betraying him completely and taking him out of the room and up the stairs.  
  
If Andrew is upstairs, then there's only one place he can logically be, and Xander is knocking on the bathroom door before he can stop himself. He's not sure when, or why, he became The Guy Who Checks Up On Andrew, but he's fairly certain that no one else will have thought to do it.  
  
There's no answer, so he tries the door, wondering if maybe Andrew's not there at all. It clicks open and swishes softly over the carpet. Xander feels his stomach strapping on the bungee cord for another try as he steps forward and sticks his head around the door.  
  
Andrew is sitting on the toilet seat, head back against the wall, looking at Xander with that trapped expression that Xander has spent the past couple of days trying to forget. Xander can see that his eyes are rimmed with red, and as if to prove his suspicions, Andrew sniffs and bats at an eye with the back of one hand. He steps all the way inside the bathroom and carefully closes the door behind him.  
  
Being in here with Andrew makes him feel uncomfortable and prickly, kind of like being around Willow after the love spell from Hades. He's trying not to think about the way Andrew must look at him and think about him, wishing he could focus on whatever it is Andrew's had to do tonight that's made him shut himself up here to cry. Instead he catches himself wondering if Andrew knows he can tell, if Andrew's speech was a deliberate attempt to clue him in, because sometimes he just seems so child-like in his openness. Like now, as he watches Xander without any effort to hide the fact that he's been crying.  
  
"You closed the seal?" he asks, and knows it's probably the dumbest thing to ask, but he still has no clue exactly what happened at the school. Andrew nods, and sniffs again. He doesn't look physically hurt, and somehow that seems to settle Xander's unease just a little. "How?"  
  
Andrew draws a shaky breath that catches audibly, making Xander's stomach lurch yet again.  
  
"It needed my tears," Andrew begins, "in return for… for spilling blood." He scrunches up his face, looking like he's about to fall into a fresh bout of sobbing, but there's no sound. His shoulders shake just once, then he's still again. His voice is flat, and Xander thinks maybe he's just completely cried out. Down in the basement, the last remaining ripples of his nothing-love are trickling out, and he thinks maybe the same has happened to Andrew's sorrow. Little bits of it are soaking into Xander, tightening his chest and pulling him inexorably towards Andrew. With his back against the door he slides slowly downwards to sit on the floor, his eyes on a level with Andrew's knees. What's the point of feeling anything anymore, he asks the world, when you just end up all empty like they do?  
  
"How?" he repeats. Apparently his vocabulary is dissipating too. Andrew leans forward, elbows on his knees, head down, eyes closed.  
  
By the time he's done explaining how Buffy put him in Jonathan's place and made him feel just the way Jonathan did in his last few moments alive, the floodgates have been pried open and Andrew is sobbing openly again.  
  
Xander knows he's supposed to feel that Andrew had to repent for killing Jonathan, and that maybe he deserves the pain that is making him shudder and weep like this. He's just having a hard time really believing it. The conversation in his head is running something like: Andrew summoned demons that made life hell for Buffy. *He did it because he was following Warren's orders.* Andrew held a sword to his throat. *Andrew was scared for his life.* Andrew was evil. *Andrew was just a kid playing at being a villain. Andrew has no idea what evil really is. Andrew's just scared and lost and alone.*  
  
It's not supposed to work like this, Xander thinks. He's not supposed to be able to rationalise everything Andrew's done like that. It's not stuff he should be able to wipe away so easily.  
  
It's just that, if Buffy can say there's good in Spike, and Willow can find someone who can see beyond her past, and if they can all bring Anya back into their house, then why can't he take this fragile, punished thing and want to take care of him?  
  
He takes hold of Andrew's elbow, gentle but firm, and steers Andrew to sit beside him. He needs no further encouragement: in a heartbeat he's practically in Xander's lap, face pressed into Xander's shoulder and an arm wrapped around his waist. Tears soak a damp patch on Xander's shirt as his shoulders heave, and Xander's own arm winds around Andrew to try and hold him still. He tries not to think about what this might mean to Andrew: just lets himself succumb to the image of egg-yellow bruises and rabbit eyes, and reminds himself that this is just one more pattern in the cycle.   
  
*****  
tbc 


	9. nine

There are many questions to ponder as Xander surveys his empty apartment. Like, how come men's razors can be black, grey, blue, green or white when women's razors only ever come in pink? Or why do girls complain so much about messy kitchens, then leave the bathroom looking like an explosion in a drugstore? And why has he allowed his one last vestige of peace to be invaded by potentials?  
  
They've all been returned to Buffy's now for training and research and motivational speeches, and Xander had hoped to use his free Saturday morning to de-stress, but from the looks of things he might not get a chance. He adds, 'how can three tiny little girls make so much mess?' to his list of questions as he heads into the bathroom with a roll of garbage sacks.  
  
Potentials aren't the only thing occupying his mind. He's been thinking a lot recently about Jonathan, which is bizarre because he's never really thought about Jonathan. If someone asked him to name all the people he went to school with, he could probably reel off most of the list, and it would most likely end with, "oh yeah, and Jonathan was there too". Nobody ever really thought about Jonathan.  
  
And now he's gone.  
  
There were so many memorial services for kids he knew in school that he quickly lost count of them, but each time they were attended by tens, if not hundreds of other students and friends and family. There were always people to remember the dead. Xander wants to know who remembers Jonathan.  
  
They knew who he was, of course, since he had a habit of popping up in their lives from time to time, but he guesses they didn't actually know him. Evidently Warren did, but since he didn't even go to their school Xander has no idea how they struck up an acquaintance. Not that it matters anymore, because Warren is gone too.  
  
So now there's just Andrew. Xander knows all too well what it's like to deal with the death of someone he knew: remembers just how heavy it makes you feel, and that's just when he's one of dozens of mourners. Now Jonathan's dead, Andrew has to bear all that weight by himself.  
  
They never mourned for Jonathan. By the time they knew he was dead, they were too busy dealing with the First. And Andrew, of course. Andrew is doing the mourning for everyone.   
  
It's that sense of nothingness again. People mourn so that somehow, even though a person may be gone, something about them carries on. Xander can't bear the thought of nothingness. It terrifies him. And now he realises how close Jonathan is to being nothing, and how hard Andrew must be working to stop that from happening. Of course, some of that pain comes from being the one who sent Jonathan on his way to the next world in the first place, but in Xander's mind that only makes it even more terrible. How desperate must Andrew have been for the life the First promised him if he was able to kill his last friend to get it?  
  
For a while Xander tries to focus on cleaning up the breakfast disaster in his kitchen, because thinking about Jonathan makes something inside him ache. He tries to find peace in the meticulous washing of cereal dishes and empty glasses, but it's not the greatest distraction.   
  
Because thinking about Jonathan leads to thinking about Andrew. He's been quieter lately. Closed off. Doesn't argue anymore. Sometimes Xander sees that familiar look of petulant indignation cross his face whenever Buffy tells him to do something, or when one of the girls yells at him for getting in the way, but then if he watches closely, he'll see the look melt as Andrew draws a deep breath, and a second later there's just a blank, distant stare as he silently goes about whatever task he's been appointed. The hunted eyes have more or less disappeared, only now Xander can read on his face a look that says, 'I see you, I see the gun, I see no way out. Just do it.' And that scares him even more.  
  
It's almost as though he's readying himself for becoming nothing. Practising. Xander doesn't know how he can stand it.  
  
He's also entirely certain he doesn't want it to happen. He has no say in who will make it through this, if any of them even do. But he simply cannot take the idea that someone he knows could just become nothing. No matter who it is. He might not have known Jonathan, and it's already tearing him up that he's allowed one guy to almost disappear, but he's not going to let Andrew go too.  
  
He can't give Andrew his redemption. It's not up to him. Then again, it's not up to Buffy either, or Giles, or anyone else who can't see past what Andrew did when he was being goaded by the First. What he can do is make sure Andrew doesn't disappear. Xander decides that his own personal mission in the time they have left is to be certain that Andrew is recognised, that he doesn't just fall into nothing. Somehow, having his own individual cause makes the whole thing that bit easier to live with.  
  
***** 


	10. ten

Somehow, opening up his apartment to the potentials has only made it feel even more empty to Xander. When the bedroom is lit only by the streetlights outside, which show vague outlines of the furniture, he listens to their hushed chatter and feels the weight of the empty space beside him. It pulls him down into the very middle of the bed, and it's so hard to sleep when he can't feel anything by his side. Some days he wakes up to find himself hugging one of the pillows, squeezing it so hard it's squidged into a kind of hour-glass shape, and the cotton is yielding but entirely devoid of warmth.  
  
They have each other, he realises. They're all absolutely terrified, but they're terrified together, and their combined presence provides a distraction from the madness of their own thoughts.   
  
Xander doesn't have that. He's beginning to realise that maybe he's the only one who doesn't. Buffy has Willow, and also Spike which is still disturbing but seems to work for her. Willow also has Kennedy, and so hasn't been seeking him out so much lately. Dawn has big sis and Willow, and Amanda too, and he's noticed a sort of silent camaraderie between Giles and Principal Wood which apparently is all the comfort they need. Anya has - well, he hasn't seen Anya since… since the basement, so he has no idea what she's doing to get through all this.   
  
Which leaves him and his empty room and the girls who seem to view him as chef, chauffeur and substitute Buffy.  
  
Right now he's supposed to be collecting them from Buffy's to take back home, but he's having a difficult time identifying them from the horde of potentials scattered around the house. Rona's easy enough to recognise, because she's been around since there were only a handful and everyone knew everyone else's names, but now there are so many that they're all just one huge collective.  
  
It doesn't help that Buffy isn't around. Whatever it is that's made her so quiet the past couple of days, she evidently hasn't deemed it necessary to share it with Xander. He can't decide if that's a bad thing or not. Since his discovery of her whatever-it-was with Spike, she doesn't seem to be opening up much to him, and even though he knows that's partly his own fault, it still stings. Then again, she's been so on edge lately, especially over the past two days, that it's easier to stay out of her way and let her deal on her own. It's like all the pressure has turned her to coal, hard and brittle and cold, and while he knows this isn't the time for hugs and smiles, sometimes it makes him ache to think he might be losing a friend like this.  
  
He finds Dawn in the kitchen, chatting with Amanda and two other girls while they work their way through a pile of sandwiches. She smiles when she sees him and the rest of them look round to see who's walked in, but don't stop their conversation. He's not sure whether to interrupt and ask where his three houseguests are, because he has a feeling that one of them is talking to Dawn and he doesn't want to seem rude. Fortunately before he can speak, Buffy appears in the doorway, followed by Andrew. He breaks into a wide smile at the sight of Xander, and Xander feels that same itch under his skin when he thinks of how Andrew apparently feels about him. He's decided that sitting with his arms around Andrew while the guy sobbed mercilessly after closing the seal probably didn't help. But his discomfort is always outweighed by the twinge he feels at the thought of letting Andrew go ignored and… well, abused is the most appropriate word he can think of, even though it's an ugly one and he would never admit out loud that it's his own friends who are responsible for some of that abuse.  
  
Thing is, he almost feels like he's a disappointment to Andrew, because he can't give the guy what he wants. Xander knows he ought to be deterred by the fact that it's another man looking at him like that, and at the very least he ought to be trying to distance himself from Andrew in the hope that eventually he'll get the message, but somehow he just can't tear himself away. There's that sense of hesitant kinship, of being around someone with similar knowledge and experiences. Xander thinks that maybe, if it weren't for Andrew's being formerly evil and for this pesky apocalypse, the two of them could actually have been friends. He suspects that somewhere there might just be another universe where the Trio gained a fourth…   
  
Plus, whenever he thinks that maybe he's letting Andrew get too close, he remembers that emptiness and decides that looking after Andrew is better than nothing at all.  
  
As Andrew enters the kitchen, Xander catches the look of dismay on his face at the sight of the pile of used plates and glasses left by the sink, and he tries to remember the last time he saw Buffy or Willow washing dishes. He shrugs it off, rationalising that they have better things to do, and announces to Buffy that he's here to take the three potentials back to his house.  
  
He's cut off by a peeved "hey!" from behind him, and he turns to see Andrew standing by the fridge.  
  
"What is it?" Buffy asks, that familiar tired edge creeping into her voice.  
  
Xander can see the effort to calm down on Andrew's face, and he speaks in a voice full of controlled annoyance.  
  
"There's nothing left for dinner," Andrew tells her, folding his arms and shifting his weight on to one foot, a movement which sets off alarm bells in Xander's head. He pleads silently for Andrew to be sensible and to not whine to Buffy about something so trivial as food, but for once Andrew's not looking at him. "They ate everything."  
  
"We need to keep our strength up," one of the girls snaps back, just before Buffy replies with, "we already had dinner."  
  
He realises Andrew's about to argue back, and knows that Buffy just isn't going to let him off easy this time, so Xander decides he needs to step in before this gets out of control.  
  
"You can have dinner at my place, Andrew," he announces. "I haven't eaten yet either." He has to look away from the smile Andrew gives in response, painfully aware that inviting Andrew over for dinner is hardly the best way to let him down gently.  
  
As Andrew rushes off to fetch his jacket, Xander turns back to Buffy to ask again about Rona and the other two girls, but stops when he sees the look on her face.  
  
"What are you doing?" she asks, annoyed and confused.  
  
He thinks for a second, then answers, "taking him out of your way. One less thing for you to worry about tonight." He wants to ask what it is that's kept her so tense lately, but she doesn't look like she's in the mood to share.  
  
"You're coddling him." She folds her arms, much like Andrew himself did just a moment ago, but on her it looks deadly. "And you're undermining my authority."  
  
That one's a surprise, and Xander wonders if she realises just how much she's starting to look and sound like Giles. He lowers his voice, because he knows the worst possible thing he can do right now is argue with Buffy in front of the girls. Behind her, they are trying their best to look uninterested in the conversation.  
  
"I'm trying to make sure he doesn't get trampled on," Xander insists, suddenly wishing Willow hadn't taken off. She'd stick up for him. "Everyone in this house has someone looking out for them except him. You've said it yourself, there are lines we can't cross. He's, he's got… Dammit Buffy, he's got bruises…" He sighs in frustration when he sees she doesn't appear to comprehend. "Look, he can be at my place annoying me, or here annoying you. Which would you prefer?"  
  
Her face softens, whether from his offer or his distress he can't tell.  
  
"Okay," she sighs, then offers him a lop-sided smile. "Thank you."  
  
***** 


	11. eleven

Rona and the other two are huddled up together on one end of his couch, cooing over some film on the TV and eating chips like they haven't seen food in a week. Xander's attention flits between them, the TV and Andrew, who has been pacing distractedly around his kitchen inspecting the contents of each cupboard ever since the film started. Despite Xander's belief that he'd be more at ease away from the strange spiky tension that's been filling Buffy's house lately, Andrew looks as though he's expecting another attack any second. It's making him nervous just watching.  
  
He tries to focus on the film for a while, but finds he can't remember who's supposed to be in love with who, and who just left who at the altar. Xander decides the cereal box that Andrew is reading is probably more interesting.   
  
The girls don't seem to notice when he gets up and crosses to the kitchen. Even Andrew doesn't seem to notice until Xander is standing right next to him, when he glances up and lets out a yelp of surprise, jumping half a step backwards.  
  
"Holy smokes, don't do that to me," he breathes, the words tumbling out in one breathy rush. He clutches at his chest, but Xander guesses that is for dramatic effect rather than a sign of an impending cardiac arrest.  
  
Xander steps back himself to give the guy some space, raising his hands in apology.  
  
"Find anything edible yet?" he asks, gesturing to the cupboards Andrew's already checked. It's getting late and his own stomach is beginning to grumble, but he's been waiting for Andrew to choose something before attempting any actual cooking. Only it turns out Andrew might not be so good at making decisions by himself.  
  
"Um, there's plenty of stuff, but I can't narrow it down," he tells Xander. The nervy catch in his voice kind of grates on Xander's nerves. He has no idea if Andrew has always been this insecure, or if it's just the hostage thing that's done this to him, but he's certain that if it keeps up, it could start to get annoying. Sometimes he thinks Andrew needs someone to shake some sense into him. Other times he just thinks the guy needs a hug.  
  
Not that Xander's going to be the one to do that, of course, because hello! Guy! Big burly construction worker guy who doesn't get mushy over other guys. Especially other guys who have crushes on him. Guy. Grrr.  
  
His masculinity suitably reaffirmed, Xander pulls two packs of instant noodles out of the cupboard and asks Andrew if he's okay with his selection. He's not normally a fussy eater, but suddenly the food he has doesn't seem like much to offer a guest. Or hostage. Andrew just shrugs and nods, then tells Xander, "I can make them if you want."  
  
Xander has to bite his lip to keep from snapping at him. Instead, he says, "I'm perfectly capable of using the microwave, you know." When Andrew's expression shifts into startled uncertainty, he jokes, "that's nothing. One of these days, I might actually figure out how to work the oven too." This time, Andrew risks a laugh, and Xander rewards him with a smile.  
  
When their food is ready, they both join the girls again. The nameless two are sitting on the floor by Rona's feet, hugging cushions to their chests as they "aw" over something onscreen. Xander takes the middle of the couch, leaving Andrew on the end, his bowl held carefully in one hand. He watches the television studiously for some minutes, then his face lights up in recognition.  
  
"Hey, wasn't that the guy from-"  
  
Xander never finds out what the guy is from, because the girls quickly 'shush' Andrew, shooting him identical irritated looks before turning back to the movie. He hears Andrew mutter something under his breath, and finds himself surprised that Andrew even knows words like that.  
  
Some minutes later, the girls are demonstrating their annoyance with the film's apparent heroine by pounding the arm of the couch.  
  
"How can she not see that he likes her?" one of them complains, throwing up her arms in frustration. Xander finds the behaviour rather perplexing: surely if she could see it, then there would be no plot to the film?  
  
"Hey, how come you guys can talk and I can't?" Andrew's whine cuts over the dialogue, and again all three 'shush' him in perfect unison. Xander glances sideways to see him pout and fold his arms, his empty bowl balanced on his knees. He knows this isn't going to be the end of it, but doesn't know if it's worth interjecting. Andrew ought to know better than interrupting like that, but Xander can sympathise: the film is so cloying and predictable that it's setting his nerves on edge. How can anyone sit through two whole hours of this?  
  
At the other end of the couch, one of the girls squeals with delight.  
  
"Oh, he's gonna kiss her!"  
  
Unable to resist, Xander leans over to Andrew and in his best Graham Chapman voice, whispers, "run away!"  
  
Andrew splutters into a fit of giggles, almost losing the bowl on his lap. Xander joins in, snickering still as the girls pelt them with couch cushions and yell at them to shut the hell up, dammit.  
  
They suffer through the rest of the film in pained silence, and fortunately it isn't long before the credits roll and the girls are yawning and announcing they want to turn in. Xander leaves Rona, who has volunteered to take the couch, to set up her sleeping bag, and shows the other two to the spare room.  
  
Unsurprisingly, they've insisted that Andrew cannot sleep in the living room, and since there's nowhere else, Xander finds himself making up a bed on the floor of his room. Andrew doesn't complain.  
  
When he's tucked up under the spare blankets and Xander's crawled into his own bed, there are a few awkward moments of silence before Andrew speaks.  
  
"I like your apartment." It's a little random, but Xander appreciates the compliment. He's never done much in the way of decorating, and sometimes he still feels like he hasn't settled in, hasn't made the space his own yet.  
  
"I like hanging out here," Andrew continues, and Xander finds it just a little worrying that he thinks of this as 'hanging out', like they really are friends. "Maybe not so much with the girls and the shushing and the yelling, but it's cool that you have your own place like this." Xander's chest tightens at the reminder that at one time he never thought he'd have somewhere like this. Suddenly he realises that maybe Andrew was also destined to be one of life's basement residents. He wonders if Andrew had any non-evil goals, and what they might have been. "It's kind of like hanging out in Warren's mom's basement."  
  
There's a catch in his voice that intrigues Xander, and without thinking he rolls over until he can look down at Andrew over the edge of the bed. In the light that filters in through the window, he can see Andrew nervously fingering the edge of his blanket.  
  
"I miss that." His voice is small and sad, and makes Xander want to "aw" like the girls watching the film. Guy, he reminds himself. Grrr.  
  
"You do?" It's all he can think of to say in reply. Andrew looks up at him, fingers still worrying the blanket.  
  
"Yeah." He smiles an odd smile that Xander guesses is wistful, though he can't see too well in the dark. "It was fun. Before, you know, the whole…" Andrew draws a deep, hitching breath. "Before the amusement park and Warren leaving me. It was…"  
  
His choice of words immediately stirs something inside Xander. 'Leaving me'. He's wondered before what Warren did to give him such a hold over Andrew even in death, and now he's beginning to get an idea. Xander tries not to think about it too much.  
  
"I miss them."  
  
Xander watches him for a moment more. He feels uncomfortable now with having to make Andrew sleep on the floor, but he's also adamant that inviting him into his bed is not going to help things. There just has to be something he can do or say to make Andrew feel a little better right now. He could point out that Warren was a psychopath who never really did anything good for anyone else. Or he could change the tack of conversation altogether in hopes of distracting Andrew.  
  
"I know you do," he says.  
  
*****  
  
tbc 


	12. twelve

It's a miracle, he decides, that something like this hasn't happened before now. Sprains and concussions and broken bones aren't such a big deal, because they can be fixed, but seven years without such a serious, debilitating injury? That's pushing your luck.   
  
Still, it doesn't seem entirely fair. After all, Xander was the only one among them without a modicum of actual training.  
  
Stupid, stupid! Why has it never occurred to him before now to invest in some serious self-defence skills? Everyone just assumes that his one night as army-guy has equipped him with all he needs to know. He could have observed Buffy's training with Giles, or joined the potentials in their sessions in the back yard. Hell, he could have just signed up for karate lessons at the Y. Anything to give him a better chance of staying safe.  
  
He's had an opportunity to do some serious thinking lately, and he's realised that there are a ton of things he should have done before now. Like telling Will just how proud he is of her and the way she's handling herself now, and how sorry he still is about Tara because he doesn't remember actually stopping to mourn for her either. Or telling Dawn just what an amazing young woman she's turning out to be. Or hugging Giles more often, because sometimes it scares Xander to think about how things might have turned out, how he might have turned out, if Giles hadn't been around, and also because his reaction when one of them throws themselves unashamedly into his arms is just priceless.  
  
He wants to tell Anya that sex in Spike's bed was probably the worst possible way to seek closure, because all it did was reawaken his memories of her perfume and the feel of her skin and her breathy little moans, and remind him just how empty his own bed feels now.  
  
He wants Buffy to stop for just a second and admit how scared she is before she collapses under the weight of the world.  
  
He wants to know why Tom didn't just give up on Jerry and find another mouse with a lower IQ, but he puts that train of thought down to his medication.  
  
Hw wants to know why making Andrew smile sets off a fizzing in his stomach.   
  
He wants to know why the one thing he had going for him, hero-wise, has been taken away.  
  
So many things he wants to know and do, but there's an unshakeable feeling that there just isn't enough time.  
  
Which is kind of ridiculous, because today he's had nothing but time. They've propped him up on Buffy's couch like an invalid, brought him juice and magazines and painkillers and ice-water. Buffy's thrown herself back into training, which Xander decides is for the best because stuff like this happening to people she knows still throws Buffy off her game. Willow's rooted herself in her usual sunny denial, disappearing now and then to cry in private and eventually volunteering to stay with the overflow of potentials in Xander's apartment.   
  
Dawn sat and talked with him earlier, eventually breaking down and sobbing in his arms for a while, and despite his discomfort Xander found it oddly soothing to hold her and tell her he was going to be okay. He's not used to being the one who's looked after: it feels like having something taken away from him.  
  
On one of his stumbling walks into the kitchen to find something to eat, he'd bumped into Faith, who'd given him an apologetic smile and told him how much "it" sucked. Or something along those lines, because he remembers her sentiment more than her words. Her honesty. Why can't they all be that honest, he wonders. Why do they have this need to skirt around it or pretend it didn't happen?  
  
The potentials still staying in the house have temporarily relocated to the bedrooms, leaving him alone on the couch. But whereas last week he would have revelled in the calm - well, revelled quietly at least - now the quiet is painful, and he half wishes he could be a part of the chatter that's still going on upstairs.  
  
He notices the kitchen light click on, and listens for a while to the sounds of someone rummaging in the fridge. If it weren't for the fact that he's still kind of woozy and can't quite judge the distance of the floor from his feet, he'd get up and go see who it was, just for the possibility of a conversation. Instead he waits impatiently until the light switches off again.  
  
Andrew hovers at the edge of the living room, not quite meeting Xander's gaze. It's almost painful to watch him hesitate on the threshold, like he's just waiting for Xander to tell him to go away.  
  
"Hey," Xander greets him in something just above a whisper, as though he doesn't want to scare him with anything too loud. Andrew looks up finally from under his lashes and after a second, murmurs a "hi" of his own.  
  
When he still refuses to move, Xander rolls his…eye, which is the weirdest sensation, and tells Andrew to sit down. He pads across the room obediently, perching on the edge of the couch next to Xander. Xander's half tempted to throttle him.  
  
He watches Andrew blinking rapidly, fidgety fingers laced together in his lap.  
  
"So. You and Spike? Reconnaissance mission?" Xander tilts his head inquisitively, immensely grateful when Andrew relaxes into a bashful smile. "How was it?"  
  
"Creepy," Andrew answers with a shaky laugh. "Spike's motorcycle was cool, and I got to interrogate a guy, but I wasn't as good as it as Anya is, and there was this old monastery where we had to spend the night…" He trails off, obviously aware that he's babbling, but somehow Xander finds it comforting. It's something familiar and normal.  
  
"I guess," Xander begins with just the slightest hesitation, "that this makes you an actual good guy now." Something begins to sparkle inside Xander in response to Andrew's grin. 'I put that smile there,' he thinks. 'He's smiling for me'.  
  
What bothers him the most is that this doesn't bother him.  
  
Andrew appears to contemplate this for a few moments, his gaze drifting off somewhere else. "I guess it does."  
  
His eyes flick back to Xander's face, suddenly fixed solidly on the patch over Xander's empty eye-socket. His smile falters and crumbles, and Xander can see the hurt in his face. Andrew's breath hisses in his nostrils as he tries to steady himself, his jaw jutting forward and his eyes sliding almost closed.  
  
"It's not fair," he announces, and when his voice catches on the last word, Xander feels something inside him break. "Not you. It shouldn't have been you."  
  
"Who then?"  
  
Andrew swallows, his eyes scrunching shut momentarily.  
  
"No one," he assures Xander with a shake of his head, "but definitely not you."  
  
Xander feels uncomfortably warm and scratchy. He shifts in his seat, looks down, and realises some of the warmth comes from Andrew's hand, which is resting on his own. Now it's Xander's turn to swallow, and suddenly there's a lump in his throat, thorny and stubborn. He feels wobbly as he glances back up at Andrew, who looks at his hand as if he has no idea how it got there. After a moment that seems to stretch out beyond actual time, he starts to slide his hand away, almost breaking their contact, until Xander turns his wrist and grasps Andrew's thin fingers in his own.  
  
Precisely three people have touched him since he awoke in the hospital. Willow, who held his hand without thinking while he lay in the hard hospital bed tucked tightly under cotton sheets; Dawn, who hugged him as though she hadn't seen him in years when he was brought home; and now Andrew, who looks at their entwined fingers as though Xander's just handed him the Holy Grail.  
  
Suddenly Xander's aware that time is running quickly onwards while they sit like this, unmoving, and he realises he has to do something. When Andrew finally looks back up at him, Xander tugs gently on his arm and pulls Andrew into a tight hug, both arms snug around his back. Andrew's face is pressed against his shoulder, and though he knows that although maybe this isn't quite what Andrew might have hoped for, it's all he can give right now. His insides are knotting and twisting, and all he can think is just how good it feels to hold someone like this, to know that someone still wants to hold him.  
  
But after a moment, the knots begin to unravel, and he realises that if anyone walks into the living room right now he's going to have a lot of explaining to do. He loosens his grip on Andrew, who slides reluctantly out of his embrace, eyes glued to the little patch of couch between them. Xander shifts again, clears his throat. Folds his hands in his lap.  
  
There's silence, during which Xander realises he can still hear the distant buzz of voices from upstairs. Life apparently doesn't stop for moments like this.  
  
Beside him, Andrew twists in his seat.  
  
"You wanna watch TV?" he asks in what could almost pass for his usual lazy, lilting voice. Without thinking, Xander "uh-huh"s his approval. Andrew moves to switch on the set, and in seconds they both sit back to be bathed in the blue glow, as scripted dialogue washes over the random hum of voices from upstairs.  
  
***** 


	13. thirteen

The glass is cold against his skin. He leans his forehead against the window, hoping to cool the fever-heat in his cheeks. Vibrations from the bus hum through him, earthing in his feet, making his toes tingle. The engine noise thrums in his ears, a counter-rhythm to the whoosh of his own blood as it pulses in his temples.  
  
Cold. Hum. Whoosh. Thrum. It's all he can feel.  
  
She's gone. She's passed. She's a dozen other clichés that are supposed to sound reassuring but ultimately add up to the fact that Anya is dead.  
  
Xander wants to know why it doesn't hurt.  
  
There's just this big yawning cavern inside him: a holding place for the pain, and he knows that as soon as it comes it's going to swallow him whole, suck him down inside that cavern and envelope him in warm, comforting agony. He just has to ride through the frozen numbness of the moment until it comes to devour him.  
  
He shivers, despite the California sun that heats the inside of the bus like a greenhouse.  
  
Buffy and Dawn and Willow and Faith up front. Giles drives. Principal Wood beside him, watching the road. Potentials - Slayers - in back. Andrew two seats in front of them, visible only if he pulls away from the window. Here because she died.  
  
Closed eyes to hide the ones still here, the ones who've filled up her space and left her out. She's still dead.  
  
His head bumps against the window as the road surface becomes uneven. It hurts, sort of. He rubs his temple. She's still dead.  
  
Rough desert road gives way to dusty towns, which blur into suburbs. She's still dead.  
  
The last ripples of his nothing-love have fallen into the crater, along with his apartment and his parents and his car and his hard-hat. Space inside, colour with no meaning. Barren.  
  
The roadside loses itself in the dark, the moon rising on L.A., and Xander snorts a vacant laugh because where else would they go? Nowhere else exists in his world: just Sunnydale and L.A. a smudge in the distance and England a blur around the edges.  
  
They were going to travel. Go beyond Sunnydale and actually travel, visit places she had not seen through human eyes. Look honey, L.A., he tells her. Can you see the lights?  
  
Genuine cold, blanket-less in the night and he's shivering, wondering why no one else is speaking anymore.  
  
He lurches forward when the bus stops, catching himself on the seat in front. Then suddenly he's the last one on the bus, and Giles is urging him to get up, get out, come see. Xander drifts out on to the street, scudding along, little rain cloud in the breeze, inside to marble and wood and it's warm. Pulls his shirt tight around him anyway.  
  
A couple of familiar faces that he's supposed to be happy to see, and there are others he doesn't know, but they make sense in this space so he lets himself be guided through, upwards, and look, there's a bed. It's big and warm, empty but comfortable and it's so easy to be wrapped up in the soft sheets. They catch around his shoes and he half knows he shouldn't be wearing shoes in bed. He'll take them off in a minute, as soon as he's warmed up enough to move without shivering, but now he's all cocooned and fuzzy, and shoes can wait, right? They'll still be there to take off when he's ready. When he's slept.  
  
And she's still dead.  
  
***** 


	14. fourteen

Sleep is cold and vacant. He doesn't dream. The only proof Xander has that he has slept at all is the patches of unconsciousness that blotch his memory.  
  
During one moment of stark lucidity, he imagines days and nights blurring and rushing by as he dozes fitfully or stares at the ceiling. So he is oddly disappointed when he finally checks his watch and discovers that he has only been in the bedroom for a meagre twenty-one hours and some odd minutes.  
  
His legs are wobbly when he finally gets up, and he has to wait a moment before staggering across the room. He tries the two doors that don't lead back out into the hallway, finding first a closet then a bathroom. For several seconds all he can do is lean against the doorframe and gaze at the dull whiteness of the facilities. The stark contrast between the tiles and the closed-curtain darkness of the bedroom hurts his vision.  
  
Eventually he manages to strip off and clamber into the shower, the tepid water ridding him of the clinging clamminess of the past couple of days. Mindful of his healing wound, he ducks his head under the shower, rinsing the grime from his hair and face until he begins to reclaim a sense of comfort and clarity.   
  
It's tempered when he has to pull on his battle clothes again, but now he feels sufficiently awake that he can step out into the hallway. Following the distant sound of voices leads Xander to a staircase, down which he travels until it opens up to reveal a wide marble space that he vaguely recognises from the night before.  
  
Several pairs of eyes swivel to watch him, but he doesn't register the faces. He feels spotlighted under the stares, on a stage, and he can't see out into the audience, but there are footsteps and someone next to him and Willow's voice whispers "Xander" as he's wrapped up tight in her arms. He drops his head, chin on her shoulder as she mumbles an "I'm so sorry" against his ear, squeezing then letting go. He wonders absent-mindedly how she knows, and feels faintly embarrassed at the thought that maybe they weren't exactly discreet in Buffy's kitchen. Or maybe Anya had just announced it herself in that unabashed way that was uniquely hers, because what was so wrong with being with someone you loved anyway?  
  
When she pulls away it's like the house lights come back on and he can see the crowd. Buffy stands across the shiny coral-coloured space that he realises is actually the lobby of Angel's hotel. She offers him a weak but relieved smile, and after a moment's uncertainty is striding across to embrace him herself. He closes his good eye as he leans down against her, and so does not see the owner of the second pair of arms that wind around from beside him, but his name spoken again tells him it's Dawn, clutching desperately just as she did after his return from the hospital.  
  
They pull away and he takes a moment to watch their tired faces, breathing deeply to steady himself. He catches a spicy cooking-tang in the air as he does, and his stomach doesn't so much growl as roar, angrily reminding him of how long it's been since he last ate.  
  
Noting his distraction, Dawn takes hold of his hand and he looks down to see her brow is furrowed. She speaks his name again, this time as a question.  
  
"Is there food?" he asks, startled by the rasp, the thickness in his own voice from so many hours of silence. "There's food, right?"  
  
Dawn breathes a suggestion of a laugh and, still holding his hand, leads him across the lobby. They pass Giles, who smiles kindly, and someone who turns out to be Wesley when Xander sees past the stubble and mussed-up hair. Kennedy and some of the other girls are sprawled on dusty-looking red seats, and they nod acknowledgement when he sees them. Beside what must have been the hotel's reception desk, Andrew and a tiny young woman in glasses are fishing boxes full of steaming Chinese take-out from bags with some unfamiliar restaurant logo on them. There's a big green guy behind them, and Xander wants to point out the… well, the green-ness, but realises just in time that no one else seems to notice, so he files it away as something to be dealt with later, when his brain has recaptured the power evidently seized by his stomach.  
  
At the edge of the desk Andrew looks up from his task and begins a wide smile. Xander halts, waits, because right now he's entirely happy to get a hug from Andrew too, even with everyone watching. But Andrew hesitates half way through, catching himself and dropping his gaze back to the box in his hands. Which doesn't make sense, and Xander feels… Oh crap, he's disappointed. He's actually disappointed that Andrew isn't rushing over to hug him like the girls did, and what does that say about his sanity? He reaches out a hand to steady himself on the desk, wondering if his wobbly limbs will take him back up to his room so he can hide under the covers.  
  
A drizzle of words falls into his awareness, and he realises with a guilty start that the woman with the glasses is asking him what he wants to eat. The mingling smells of a dozen different dishes tug at his stomach, making it groan loudly, and he shrugs and announces "anything." Five seconds later he's handed a box of noodles with a fork sticking out the top, for which he is immensely grateful because there's no way his brain or his fingers can deal with chopsticks right now.  
  
He drifts away to one of the faded red seats and sets to work devouring the noodles. The dull chatter of the rest of the crowd steams right past him. He watches Andrew studiously ignoring him, handing out boxes and chopsticks to the waiting hordes and in a painful echo of his role in Buffy's kitchen, waits until everyone else has been dealt with before helping himself to the last box. He follows Dawn to a couch across the lobby and talks with her about something that Xander can't hear. Xander eats his noodles and wonders why no one is sitting next to him.  
  
***** 


	15. fifteen

Their second morning in the hotel, and Xander has a fresh change of clothes. The world seems just a teensy bit more bearable. He wonders idly if Andrew felt the same way when he was gifted with Xander's old sweats and T-shirts.   
  
Willow brought them to his room not long after he woke up, along with coffee and donuts. He tries not to think about the origins of the black jeans, since there is still a lingering shadow of a memory, lancing through the fog, that suggests he's supposed to resent Angel. The T-shirt, however, has actual colours, leading Xander to suggest it must belong to one of the nameless faces gracing the lobby the night before.  
  
Physically, he feels almost ready to face the world again. Mentally, he's drowning in treacle, gloopy and clinging and muffling everything else, making anything solid seem so far away.  
  
He tries to remember what it's like to feel something other than tired or hungry or restless: tries to find a tangible thread of happy, angry, loved, scared, anything that goes beyond muscle and bone and insides. All he can manage is a sensation akin to stepping up to the edge of the high-dive and looking down at the water, feeling the floor about to disappear into unrelenting space, that vertigo-rush of on-the-precipice terror.  
  
The day turns into a smudge, everything rubbing into the next thing as he watches the city out of his window, stares uncomprehending at the newspaper Willow brings him, and occasionally wanders the hallways on his floor. At some point mid-morning he runs into Buffy on her way back to her own room, and they exchange twin smiles of sympathetic grief, Xander's stomach crunching into creases when he remembers Spike never made it out of the school either. There are generic inquiries into each other's well being, until they run out of painless things to say, and Buffy announces she has to find Dawn.  
  
Willow visits his room again after midday to tell him lunch has arrived, which he declines, and to let him know that Faith and Robin are leaving, should he wish to see them. He tells her he'll be down shortly, then crawls into bed and sleeps for a couple of hours until Dawn knocks on his door. She updates him on downstairs life, tells him they've started shipping the girls back home to their respective families, gives him vague second-hand details about L.A. events over the past few weeks. Cordelia's missing, she says, and Dawn is helping with research stuff while L.A. people move some things out of the hotel: to where, she doesn't know.  
  
On his walks (or more accurately, stumbles) around the hallways, he catches fragments of sounds from downstairs that inform him that yet again, life still carries on around his little moments of worth. While Will and Dawn check up on him occasionally, everyone else leaves him to his grief.  
  
It's evening again when he finally gets fed up of hiding and traipses down the movie-set staircase in search of a distraction. He puts it down to his rotten luck that the lobby crowd has disappeared. There's just the green guy and Andrew behind the desk, packing some stuff into boxes. Or possibly unpacking, since they've stopped what they're doing to watch him and he can't judge the direction the book in Andrew's hands is about to take while it's stationary.  
  
Xander mooches on over to the desk, simply because there's nowhere else to go. He shoves his hands in his pockets and glances at the books and papers scattered around.  
  
"Hey." Andrew's voice is hesitant, like a clearing of the throat, and Xander knows the worst possible thing he can do is look into his face. The knowledge comes too late, though, because he's already looking up, and there's that damn trapped expression again, rabbit-eyes, and Xander thinks, 'no. Not now, not while I really am capable of hugging him to death.'  
  
He's saved only when he remembers they're not alone. The green guy is watching them intently with an air of expectation that's obvious even to Xander.  
  
"Uh, this is, um, Lorne," Andrew explains, gesturing to mister tall, green and conspicuous. Lorne nods in acknowledgement, and when he smiles Xander begins to realise why no one else seemed wary of him the night before.  
  
"Lemme guess: Xander, right?" Lorne asks him. "Well, good to see you up and about, kid. You're looking, well, better than yesterday at least."  
  
Xander simply responds with a tight smile, still unsure of his vocal abilities right now. He tries to remember the last time anyone called him 'kid'. Somehow it reminds him of Spike, even though this guy makes it sound perfectly friendly, and that makes him feel just a little uneasy. Andrew also seems at a loss for words, dropping his gaze and fiddling with the button on his shirt cuff. Itchy silence worms its way in again until Lorne clears his throat abruptly.  
  
"Maybe I need to be somewhere else right now," he breezes. "You gonna carry on here, Andy?" Andrew nods, and Xander barely catches the quizzical glance Lorne shoots at him before he bustles off into a room on the other side of the desk.  
  
The quiet is back again, thistle-sharp, so out of desperation Xander waves a hand at the boxes and debris littering the desk and asks what it's all for.  
  
"Something about, uh, moving to a new base, I think," Andrew drawls, still worrying at that button. For the first time Xander is aware that Andrew too has new clothes: dark grey slacks that look a shade too long, and a blue button-down shirt that doesn't quite match. He wonders if perhaps they belong to Wesley, since there's no way any of Angel's clothes would suit Andrew's slight frame. "I was just helping Lorne box up some stuff." He looks longingly in the direction that Lorne has disappeared to, and Xander can tell he's dying to follow. His shoulders are hunched, and he's twisting visibly away from Xander.  
  
"Are you avoiding me?" The words ring out sharp and shrill in the spacious marbled lobby. Xander silently curses his voice for sounding so out of practice. Andrew's head snaps up, and of all the things Xander expects to see, the guilty shadow around his eyes is definitely not one of them. Neither is such a positive affirmation of his suspicion. "Wha - why? I don't…" Since when had he become so incoherent? Whole days of silence - really not good for him. "I don't get it."  
  
Andrew pulls some more at his button, and Xander can see that the thread is loose, that soon it'll fall right off.  
  
"Why would you want me around?" It reminds Xander of the whine of his early hostage days, but there's a dash of wretchedness in there too that makes Xander regret shouting.  
  
"Why wouldn't I?"  
  
"Because…" Andrew looks over at the door Lorne went through, sniffs, then looks back at his hands. "It was 'cause of me." He draws a quick breath, then falls into a rapid torrent of words. "I know you still loved her and she loved you and you were practically back together and then she didn't make it, and," he trails off to draw another breath, "and now you're all, with the grief and everything…" It trickles to a standstill, Andrew looking up at him now with a wet shine to his eyes that makes Xander's skin feel hot and too tight. "I just figured you wouldn't want me around right now."  
  
His gaze pulls away from Xander, back to his cuff. Pick, pick, pick at that damn button again, until Xander darts out a hand and captures his wrist, holding him still.  
  
"How do you know what I want?" There's nothing aggressive about it, but too late he remembers blotchy yellow bracelets, and even though he knows Andrew's wrists are unmarked now beneath those baggy shirt cuffs, the memory still nauseates him. He relaxes his grip, but does not let go entirely. "Just…" And it's so hard, because he can't even say exactly what it is he wants from Andrew: just knows he can't stand the thought of driving him away like that. "Just don't, okay?"  
  
Andrew watches him with furrowed brow, evidently as confused as Xander is, but there's no better way to explain it, and even if he could find the words, pull some meaning from the miasma of feelings that are fizzing inside him, the front doors are clicking open and lively chatter is flooding into the room to draw them both away to see who it is.  
  
He drops Andrew's arm before Willow and Dawn see them. They're followed by Wesley and another guy Xander doesn't recognise, and they all smile to see him, calling lively greetings and filling the space with life and warmth.  
  
They dump what must be a dozen pizza boxes on the front desk, and Xander wonders if every meal at the hotel is take-out. Surely there must be a kitchen somewhere, he reasons? Don't these people ever cook for themselves?  
  
As Willow calls upstairs for the rest of their team to come and get it, Wesley gives his first proper hello. It's a little stilted, and not helped by the fact that Xander is still trying to reconcile this worn-looking, soft-spoken man with the suited and bespectacled gent from Sunnydale. He introduces the other man as Gunn, and Gunn makes some joke about his shirt that leads Xander to believe he is the donor. Gunn moves over to the food before he has a chance to say thank-you.  
  
Everyone here seems to move fast, even the ones who arrived with him, and Xander cannot understand how they can have recovered so quickly.  
  
He joins them for pizza, then while everyone else is clearing away empty boxes and Coke cans, he steals away and heads back to his room, tired from the effort of conversation and keeping up with the crowd. He clambers into bed still wearing Gunn's T-shirt with his boxers, and leans back against the headboard, wishing he could quiet the rattle of thoughts inside his head.  
  
When the voices sweeping past outside as people make their way to their own rooms eventually quiets, and Xander can hear the far-away slide of traffic down in the streets, there's a knock at his door. He calls for whoever it is to come in, too drained even to go to the door himself. A moment later, and Andrew is silhouetted in the slat of light between door and frame.  
  
When Xander says nothing, he slips inside, easing the door closed with a soft 'snick' and padding over to the bed. Still Xander says nothing, so he balances himself carefully on the edge of the mattress. He fidgets with the edge of the blanket, then asks, "You sure you want me around?" There's a shake in his voice that makes Xander wonder how much courage it took for Andrew to come to his room in the middle of the night, dressed for bed in sweatpants and T-shirt, and sit on Xander's bed like this.  
  
There's something familiar about the squeak of bedsprings when Andrew sits, and in the sudden spread of weight over both sides of the double.  
  
"Stay," he replies, and when Andrew slides in next to him he remembers that the even distribution of two bodies means he is not pulled into the empty middle of his own bed.  
  
They lay side by side, a gap down the middle of the bed almost wide enough for another person, but the nearness is enough to remind Xander that his room is not empty tonight.  
  
*****  
  
tbc 


	16. sixteen

This is the thing that scares him almost as much as nothing. This drifting, this aimless wandering through life while everyone around him strides about, buoyed by purpose and driven towards something definite.  
  
Willow's been talking about visiting Kennedy for a time before getting back to her own family. Giles is making plans to return to England, and Xander can tell that Buffy is tempted to go with him, if only to take some time out before she and Dawn set about re-planning their own lives. Faith took off days ago, along with the former Principal, and the last of the new Slayers are heading off home today.  
  
Even Andrew seems to have a plan of sorts. He's become a sort of general assistant to Angel's crew, researching and running errands and helping with their move, and presumably they're happy to keep him around. Occasionally Xander sees him in the middle of some task, or chatting with Lorne or the woman with the glasses, apparently named Fred, and he just looks so… so comfortable. Like he's found his place.  
  
Xander wants to know why he's the only one not fitting in.  
  
He'd asked Andrew about it that morning, wanting to know how he'd settled in so easily here. Andrew'd explained he'd just gotten talking to Lorne and Fred and eventually discovered that he had something in common with the L.A. team. Like him, they've all made mistakes. They all have regrets. But they're getting on with life, trying to do something positive, and that includes taking in lost souls. He'd chuckled, then told Xander, "and the new guy, he can just fit right in with people who are just like him." Xander hadn't gotten it. He'd smiled anyway.  
  
He's starting to think that they're leaving him out on purpose. Not out of any kind of malice: they've just assumed he wants to be by himself. They don't say much to him when he's around, and they don't seek him out when he's not. They don't know he's floundering.   
  
They don't know either that Andrew's still slipping into his room at night, sleeping next to him until it's time to go fetch breakfast and make coffee and renew the search for Cordelia.  
  
He knows there's something not right about it: about needing to know there's someone else there next to him before he can fall asleep. Xander doesn't like what all this is turning him into. He can feel himself falling, and knows the longer it goes on, the harder it's going to be to pull himself back out.  
  
So Andrew's kind of his lifeline now. It's knowing that once the daytime sounds of the hotel fade away and the traffic noises creep in again, his door will slide open like a whisper and there'll be someone who wants to be next to him. It's knowing that Andrew will stop whatever he's doing whenever Xander appears in the lobby and tell him everything that's happening with a grin that's even audible in his voice. It's knowing that there's something good still left even after she's gone. It's all this that's keeping him from straying out into the city and just letting himself go.  
  
He realises all of this in one bare moment of empty time while he sits on the stone seat outside the hotel, listening to the city sounds and wondering why he can't see the way to go next. The knowledge freezes him, sends ice through his blood and makes him stand and walk away, just move somewhere, to prove that he hasn't atrophied and is still a real live walking talking Xander.  
  
Which is why, when his bedroom door sighs open that night, he's sitting on the edge of the bed instead of in it. He's up on his feet before Andrew's even inside, pushing the door closed behind him and pulling him into a dangerous embrace, so tight it makes Andrew gasp.  
  
"How do you know what I want?" he asks, and the question seems familiar but he can't place it.  
  
Andrew's hands are on his waist, giving him sufficient leverage that he can push back, just enough to look up into Xander's face and show his confusion. But Xander doesn't know how to explain, doesn't even comprehend it himself. All he can do is hold on to Andrew, pull him back again, drop his head 'til his chin is on Andrew's shoulder. And then there's Andrew's neck, right next to his mouth, and there still isn't enough contact, and all he has to do is turn this way just a little more, tilt his head to the side just this much, and there. His lips press against warm skin like a shadow, and he feels the shiver that rolls through Andrew's body. But one isn't enough, so he has to try it again, and since he's there he might as well make it three, four, until he's smudging cotton-soft kisses across Andrew's jaw, and suddenly here's his mouth, so close to Xander's, and why not?  
  
It's like feeling rain on his face, waiting for the drops to fall in just the right place that he can taste them, with head tipped back and eyes - eye - closed. It's listening to the little pops and clicks each time lips pry apart, thinking it's enough then needing to find just one more, one for luck, then one to tide him over, then another just for the hell of it.  
  
Then Andrew's looking at him like he can see where Xander disappeared to these past few days, and now he's running to catch up. There are muddled steps across the floor, then a pressure at the back of his calves that plonks him down to the mattress, accompanied by a sigh of complaint from ancient bedsprings. When he gets his bearings, Andrew's kneeling beside him, a hand on Xander's arm to steady himself as he waits for his cue.  
  
It dawns on him as he studies Andrew through vision that's still fuzzy round the edges, that maybe this is still kind of new to Andrew. He kisses like he's mimicking Xander's movements, waiting to be taught what to do. Turns out he's a fast learner though, because when Xander drops his gaze to Andrew's suddenly-flushed lips, there's hardly any hesitation anymore. There's still that same undecided caution, only now it's silk, not cotton, smooth and fluid and effortless touch of plump flesh against flesh. His arms snake around Andrew's waist, and his endeavours to pull them closer only result in a graceless tumble to the bed, his head hitting the pillows square on with a muffled 'oomph'. Deft fingers scuttle under Andrew's T-shirt, pressing against heated skin as Andrew plants both hands either side of Xander's shoulders to hold himself up.  
  
Raindrop kisses become a storm, and he's just aware enough to be grateful of Andrew's eagerness to learn when he realises their tongues are sliding together, flickering and tasting like it's the most logical progression on the path they've chosen.  
  
There's a twist, a shift in position as Andrew tries to settle himself more comfortably along Xander's body, and suddenly Xander is arching up and hissing, nearly biting Andrew's lip in his shock. His good eye snaps open and he stares up, trying to read Andrew's face for some indication of what he did to make Xander feel that sliver of jagged bliss that just swept through him. For a second Andrew looks terrified, then his eyes widen, and he shifts once more. His hips roll against Xander's and there it is again, curving his spine until Xander pushes back against him. Andrew inhales sharply, a surprised smile tugging at his open mouth.  
  
It must be Andrew who removes their clothes, he decides later, because all he knows is suddenly he has five feet and some odd inches of warm, nude Andrew pressed against him from top to toe. The blankets crease and wrinkle underneath them as they rock together, taking some of the clamminess from Xander's sweat-soaked skin as engorged flesh scuds together. Frenetic kisses wear away until his mouth moves uselessly against Andrew's, and it's not quite enough, not even as his hands sweep down Andrew's back and trail over his sides, and still not enough as he bucks against Andrew's hips, setting a new pace that makes Andrew grunt with the effort of keeping up. It's still not enough, not until he arches his back and suddenly every muscle he knows feels tight and squashed, and suddenly he's shuddering ferociously, moaning his release along with Andrew's name. Andrew writhes against him a moment more, his eyes creased shut, until he too is shaking, unable to bear his own weight any longer as he crumples atop Xander's inert form.  
  
The room around them swims back into focus, and he's aware of a sudden stickiness that he really ought to deal with, but can't seem to summon the required energy. But then Andrew is wiping at his stomach with the corner of the blanket, which strikes him as vaguely icky but he can't think of anything better to do.  
  
His last realisation before he loses himself to sleep, is the fact that he doesn't have to fit himself around curves of any kind when he holds Andrew: instead his slight frame seems to fold and bend itself around Xander's body, like a rag-doll, like the pillow he used to wake up hugging in his old apartment, squished into a shape that fits him.  
  
*****  
  
tbc 


	17. seventeen

There is no alarm telling him he has to be at work in an hour. There is no early morning kitchen bustle. There is no birdsong.  
  
Xander thinks there should be something. A morning like this deserves something more than a slow drift into waking that is entirely uneventful. The morning after should not be so easy.  
  
There's no red-letter-day flutter in his belly. Then again, there's no sinking, 'what the hell did I do' sensation either. There's just Andrew, snoring lightly and laying on Xander's left arm, cutting off the circulation and making his fingers tingle.  
  
Memories of the previous night do not make him want to run to the bathroom and scrub every square inch of his skin until he squeaks. Xander decides this is a good thing.  
  
When he shifts his head, he feels something brush against his temple. Raising his free hand, he finds that his patch has slipped free and is resting on his hair. It's only since Andrew's been sleeping beside him that he's stopped taking it off at night. A faint impression of panic rumbles inside him as he struggles to pull it back into place. His one-handed fumbling causes the bedsprings under his shoulder to creak, and the motion rouses Andrew into near-waking. He burrows his head further into the pillow, and Xander can hear the unspoken, 'five more minutes, mom' as he tries to find sleep once again. A few moments more, though, and he's rubbing at his eyes and shifting against Xander's chest. Xander waits patiently for Andrew to look back at him over his shoulder, watching the uneasy smile of recognition that edges across his face.  
  
"Hi," he whispers.   
  
Andrew blinks a few times, then his smile drifts into something a little more relaxed when it becomes clear that Xander is not about to shove him out of bed and send him away. He mutters a "hey" of his own before dropping his head back on to Xander's arm, settling more comfortably against him. And that seems about the extent of his conversational abilities. Xander's too, evidently, since he can find nothing else to add.  
  
For almost a minute, there's nothing but the sound of their breathing, his chest rising and falling against Andrew's back until they achieve a kind of synchronisation that could almost lull him back to sleep.  
  
"Xander?" Andrew's voice is muffled and barely penetrates the drowsy haze around Xander's head. "That was just a comfort fuck, wasn't it?"  
  
His first thought is how strange 'fuck' sounds in Andrew's lazy, hesitant voice. The actual sense of the words takes a moment to reach him.  
  
"I don't know." His voice is flat. He thinks he should be confused, or possibly worried, but all he can manage is dulled contentment. Outside, the city sounds are rumbling by as though they never stopped, as though they don't care what's happening here. Xander is just barely grateful for this little pocket of calm.  
  
"You were thinking about Anya, weren't you?" Even as he speaks Andrew is lazily stroking a fingertip along the inside of Xander's forearm.  
  
He thinks about this for a moment. Really thinks.  
  
"No," he answers eventually. "No, I wasn't."  
  
"But it wasn't about me."  
  
So long, little pocket of calm. Xander eases his arm out from underneath Andrew's shoulder so that he can move back enough to see his face. Andrew obligingly rolls on to his back, but does not look up.  
  
"If you're so convinced it wasn't about you," Xander asks, exasperated and frightened by this broken boy, "why'd you do it?"  
  
Andrew peers up at him.  
  
'Oh yeah,' Xander remembers. 'That's why.' He ponders this for a moment, then thinks, 'Shit.' Wonders what Andrew must think of him now.  
  
"It was about you," he cuts in before Andrew can say anything. "It was about..." He knows there are reasons, valid Andrew-related reasons for what he did last night, but putting them into words, actually saying them out loud - that's where it gets hard. "It was you," he finishes lamely, hoping it's enough.  
  
"You just don't seem too thrilled about it." Andrew offers a weak, self-deprecating smile that wrinkles his odd little squashed nose and hits Xander like a punch to the gut.  
  
Before he has any time to stop and think about it, he's brushing his thumb over Andrew's cheek, wondering how to smooth away the worry-lines creasing his forehead.  
  
"I just got a lot to think about right now," he explains. "Questions to answer."  
  
Like how come he's still not freaking out about laying here naked with another guy who also happens to be naked, after doing interesting naked things with said guy. Or how come Andrew knew how to do those interesting things.  
  
He props himself up on one elbow. Andrew tugs on the blanket, apparently unsure whether to pull it further up or shove it away.  
  
"You want me to go?" Without warning Andrew tries to sit up, the blanket slipping precariously low. "I mean, if you wanna be alone to think or...whatever."  
  
Xander imagines Andrew getting out of bed, getting dressed, leaving the room. Imagines being by himself to think.  
  
"No." It's the one thing he's entirely sure about right now. "Well, how am I supposed to figure this out if the person it's about isn't here?" He manages not to wince at his own cheesy dialogue.  
  
"Really?"  
  
Xander moves to sit up too, bringing him eye-to-eye with Andrew. Free of gel, his dirty-blonde hair feathers around his face, giving him an innocent look that lies so convincingly about the things he did the night before.  
  
"Really," Xander assures him.  
  
There's another turn, another change in the pattern. Andrew shifts, leans in a little towards Xander and damn, where did he learn *that* look? Xander tries to remember that he's the older one here, the one who's been at least part way around the block, but Andrew's pinning him in place with a look that says, 'that was *so* the right decision'. And suddenly he's the insecure teenager held immobile under the predatory stare, and there's no way to resist when Andrew moves in to kiss him.  
  
***** 


	18. epilogue

It's hot. Too hot to be wearing a suit, and Xander has to remove his jacket and sling it over his arm before he can walk any further. The last thing he needs right now is to show up for his interview looking like he just ran a marathon.  
  
But that's the way it is here. It's not like the comforting T-shirt warmth of Sunnydale. This heat has nothing to do with the sun and everything to do with the people. Everywhere's a sardine can: subways, stores, even the streets, where the concrete bakes under the friction of a million footsteps and the smell of countless inhabitants rises around him like someone's just pulled off the lid.   
  
He decides he likes the can metaphor, as he rounds the corner and almost bumps into a twin-setted woman marching along behind two identical terriers. She blusters at him in unaccented words that he ignores as he moves on resolutely. Can't be late. Can't be late.  
  
This one could be it. Or near enough. Either way, it's better than stacking shelves, which is what he's been doing for the past four weeks. The carpentry gig was supposed to have brought him beyond that: he'd hoped to never wear a supermarket uniform again. But pride is nothing when you need money.   
  
It's not that there's a lack of good jobs here: if it's possible, L.A. has more of a demon destruction problem than Sunnydale, and there are always construction crews to be seen in and around the city. It's just that potential employers seem wary of guys who can't judge the distance between the plane and their fingers.  
  
But there's other stuff he can do. He has other skills. People skills. Hence the management job he's interviewing for in...he checks his watch. Fourteen minutes. He's not late yet. It's a paperwork-heavy job, but there's also site stuff that'll get him out of the office and let him meet people. He'll get used to it.  
  
There's been a lot to get used to lately, so he's had plenty of practise. Buffy's gone: a sabbatical in England, just as he expected. Willow's staying with her folks, but she's promised to visit soon. Giles has permanently relocated, and though there's been the odd phone call, Xander doesn't expect to see him in America again.  
  
He has a whole new team to work with now. Wesley and Angel are faces he knows, and even though Angel's just as broody as he remembers, Wesley's whole 'to hell and back' makeover means Xander kind of likes being around him now. There's still a big Giles-shaped whole that'll never be filled, but Wesley's not a bad substitute. And there's Gunn, who's turning into a great buddy, and Fred who's always friendly even if Xander doesn't understand a word she says half the time.  
  
So, weird as it still seems sometimes, Andrew's the familiar face, the one who makes it all seem vaguely normal. And he likes normal.  
  
Normal is the tired ache after a day's work. Normal is making dinner in the microwave and eating it while stretched out on the couch. Normal is sitting down in front of the TV with Andrew, which feels also vaguely familiar. It's not something they ever really did, but it feels like something they might have done, once. Should have done.  
  
He knows he doesn't know nearly enough about Andrew. Sometimes he finds himself wondering what Andrew was like before he was evil. What he did after school. What he wanted to do with his life.   
  
Finding out isn't easy. For all his inane chatter, Andrew doesn't say much about things past. A couple of weeks ago, Xander had asked if he'd thought about tracking down his folks to see where they'd gone after Sunnydale. Andrew had changed the subject. Xander hasn't mentioned it since.  
  
Sometimes it seems better like that. There are things that are easier to ignore. This is his life now. It wouldn't help to interrupt his readjustment. There are a lot of things to adjust to.  
  
Like living in the hotel, which isn't permanent because soon he'll be able to afford his own apartment, but sometimes it's still strange to think about all those empty rooms, just abandoned to dust and spiders. Or like knowing that no one will think any less of him if he takes Andrew's hand, or if they come down to breakfast together wearing matching tired smiles, or if they're caught kissing on the dusty red sofas in the lobby.  
  
Some things take a lot of getting used to. But Xander's decided that's half the fun.  
  
END 


End file.
